


Sweetheart

by BridgeToTheSky



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Alfred's disappointed in Bruce's choices, Angst, Batman duties, F/M, Fluff and Smut, I love that even in a smutty fic like this Alfred still gets to be sassy and disappointed, I use the little bit of German that I know as an excuse, Love, Romance, Shameless Smut, To fuck up fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8105056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeToTheSky/pseuds/BridgeToTheSky
Summary: But if he were serious, if he were a better man — or even a good man — he would’ve forced you away, wouldn’t notice other things about you; like the way your chemise rides up your thigh, hinting at a plump ass, or perfect bright pink lips or the curves of your neck that made his incisors ache to tickle and bite —His resolve only holds until it doesn’t.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Can it be? A smutfic I've been wrestling with for months has finally been published? WHAAAT? 
> 
> This was so much fun. I'm learning French and German, and I'm still a filthy beginner, but I tried to incorporate some German terms of endearment, just to test the waters. It's really fun ... 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

You make him say it.

 

He has no problem saying it, but he’s Bruce, and he’s not a vocal fella. You knows this. You know this, and yet you still —

 

“Say it again, _mein Schatz_ ,” You say, settling in his lap like an attention-starved kitten, placing soft, lingering kisses against his neck and ear.

 

And it’s not just him; you torture him with sultry German terms of endearment. _Mein Schatz_. _My treasure_. The terms fall off your lips like warm honey, soft as petals. They make his heart pause in its beating, and he can’t hide it from you when you’re this close.

 

It becomes a game: who can make who say what, and for how long, and Bruce has the will of a thousand men. Or, at least, he thinks he does, but you know he’s never sure when you’re concerned.

 

“ _Say it_ ,” You say, your ass brushing not-at-all-subtly against his crotch, nipping at his aftershaved neck.

 

It slips out in a soft growl, “Sweetheart …”

 

An air pump coupled with a victorious giggle, and he allows himself a soft chuckle before you meet his lips. Your hands fall over his shoulders and around them as he pulls you closer. His hand, dwarfing your own, entangling itself in the back of your head, against strands and strands of hair.

 

He can see the lights blinking from the monitor and he hopes nothing urgent comes up, because he’s not sure if the need for him will win out against your need for him. The lights blink monotonously against his eyelids. He falls back against his leather chair as you force yourself on him, towering over him, pressing against his neck to deepen the kiss.

 

“Say it again,” You breath out. “ _Schatz. **Liebhaber**_."

 

You say it so desperately, so adamantly. You think Bruce can almost taste the yearn on the skin of your lips as he grazes his teeth over them, the touch so light it is almost ticklish.

 

He pulls away slightly, the ends of his mouth pulled in such a tiny smirk you must really have to look in the wet darkness of the cave in order to identify it.

 

“Earn it again.”

 

Your eyes glitter as the thrill at his words go through you. Bruce starts to rise from his chair and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist. He carries you in between kisses to higher quarters.

 

You’re near weightless in his hold, and he throws you a bone:

 

“I hope you don’t have plans tonight.”

 

You giggle again, snuggled against his brisk neck. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

 

V

 

You smell like vanilla.

 

Bruce hates that he notices.

 

You wear it just to torture him, he realizes, and he hates that it’s quite an efficient form of torture, constructed just for him. It reminds him of sweet things that his life is utterly barren of, of schooldays when he used to care about things — if he ever truly _did_ care — and it never fails to rouse him.

 

He’s told you — he’s _told_ you — you’re too young —

 

But if he were serious, if he were a better man — or even a _good_ man — he would’ve forced you away, wouldn’t notice other things about you; like the way your chemise rides up your thigh, hinting at a plump ass, or perfect bright pink lips or the curves of your neck that made his incisors ache to tickle and bite —

 

His resolve only holds until it doesn’t.

 

Like now.

 

He rests you against the bed the two of you share (also not his idea, but one day he let you share it with him and then it seemed like you were always meant to be there) and falls against you, lips and all. He pins your arms at either side of your head without thinking, and let out a soft moan at his moment of domination. Your legs are crushed against his sides, one sliding up and down, coiling a bit of his night shirt up, exposing his skin to yours and —

 

“Oh, sweetheart …”

 

Your hands come to his sides, working up the ends of his shirt even further. He rises and yanks it over his head, throwing it at the floor before falling over you again.

 

“ _Schatz_ …”

 

He tries to fight the truth, but its there; there is a hollow inside of him that you fill, that you occupy with light and laugh and things he never even considered before. However weightless he makes you feel you double that, triple it, and it makes it bearable for him to be drug back to the cold earth and do what he is meant to do.

 

But now … now it’s just you writhing underneath him as he tries to scoot you up to the pillows. When he succeeds he rips away at your blouse — he’ll get you another — and begins to plant kisses against your flushed skin, hands tugging at your bra, bunging from the heat of your chest.

 

Your hands are in his hair, the soft tresses weaving through your fingers. At the contact of your fingers at his scalp, he shivers. He hear a clip and feels your bra begin to pull away from you with his force. He breathes through his nostrils and he’s sure you can feel the heat of it.

 

Your bra is hunched against your abdomen, giving him free reign to the valley of your breasts.

 

“Bruce …” You call out, twisting slightly to the side to, perhaps, escape the constant bombardment of your senses. “Bruce, I … I wan — need to —”

 

He understands immediately, removing himself from you. He lets his hand pull at your waist as he falls to his side, allowing you equal possession of him. You’re at eye level with him now, dazed, just as he is, by the sudden heat of it all.

 

You reach out to touch him, when your hand falters, instead resting against the sheets in between your bodies.

 

“You …” You began, as unsure as he’s seen you tonight. “You probably need to be going soon, hm?”

 

Just as he thought before, the weight that you lift from him was being placed back onto his back, like Atlas and the world, at the mention of his mission.

 

Yes. Yes, he does need to be leaving. He’s got work to do, and the night has just been born, which means things will only be getting worse. This is Gotham, after all, and he can’t afford any Bat-free nights.

 

His hold on you becomes subconscious; his grip intensifying against your waist, fingers pressing against your back, forcing you nearer. He meets your eye and sees that they are slowly becoming less fogged by heat; you’re hot for him, and you want him, and — _goodness_ , at the idea of what you’d do to him … — and you’d rather he stay, but you know he can’t.

 

Twenty years. He can’t start slipping now.

 

The Bat works like clockwork; almost the same time every night, and the only thing more seductive than the night — Bruce knows this all too well — is the idea of a night without any news of the Bat.

 

Bruce pulls you in for a kiss. It is all-encompassing and slow, and it lingers as it ends, as your lips falter against his and leave him with nothing but his duty.

 

“I’ll see you in the morning, sweetheart.”

 

His voice is guttural, but he supposes that he can’t hide it. There’s so much promise in that statement, and your expression is one of understanding as he slips from bed and makes it out of the room, before you can convince him to stay.

 

Before Alfred catches on to what’s been going on, and persuades him to stay with you, too.

 

V

 

“Surely, I can prepare some breakfast for you, Miss (Y/n).”

 

You offer Alfred Pennyworth a sweet smile, and it’s both sincere and fake; Of _course_ he can, but he doesn’t understand — you can’t possibly _tell_ him — that there’s nothing you want to eat in that refrigerator. There’s nothing here, in Bruce Wayne’s home, that you will extinguish your appetite other than Bruce Wayne.

 

You feel his presence, as you have all night, like a missing warmth, exposing you to the cold. Even through the thankful pocketfuls of sleep that you were able to find throughout the night, your body is still taut with his teasing, and you refrain from touching the valley between your breasts regardless of the memory of his breath there.

 

You swivel in your chair at the first mention of the Bat; a new criminal, a new insignia burned into their chest as a result of their heinous crimes; the sadists, the perverts, the liars, the thieves.

 

A rush of pride settles within you at the news. _That’s my angel,_ you think, and you laugh at the startling comparison between Bruce’s Bat and an angel.

 

“Bruce is …” Alfred begins, eyes trained on the television set as the newswoman rambles on about the specifications of the crimes committed last night, and the ones Bruce stopped, “… certainly not slowing down, hmm?”

 

“Were you expecting him to?” You asked, legitimately curious.

 

Alfred faces you, eyes somewhat sad. “I’ll keep my answer to myself in fear of sounding naive.”

 

Your laugh is dry and you lower your gaze. “I’ll … I’ll have a coffee, is that all right?”

 

“Of course,” he says, and you don’t watch as he gets to work.

 

 _Of all the orphans you had to get,_ you think to yourself with a rush of pity, _you had to get the one prone to fucking **bat** costumes and scary heroism._

 

You feel so very bad for the man, because damn, did _he_ get a bad deal. Of course he didn’t in the most practical sense; his boy is out catching criminals, branding them, sending to hell. But of _course_ he got a bad deal, you should know, because Bruce _can’t sit still_. Not now. Not ever, really.

 

Not even around you, but you wouldn’t want him to; unlike Alfred, you wouldn’t want him to stop; it would be such a betrayal of Bruce, of who he was, his person.

 

You almost contemplate the who-is-he-without-Batman question, but you skip on it, because, honestly, the coffee sounds more relaxing.

 

The coffee that eventually evolves into a full-out breakfast. You take your last three gulps of coffee after an half an hour of eating and talking to Alfred, then you say your goodbyes in favor of a shower.

 

You told yourself that if Bruce wasn’t back by ten, you’d leave to do your own things. After all, you wanted him like burning, but … you weren’t sure; maybe he should get some goddamn sleep first.

 

The Wayne showers are elaborate and you close the door behind you and start the water, avoiding it for a second as it turns from freezing, arctic cold that makes your fingers tremble to a soothing warm.

 

You recall last nights events; how many times had you gotten him to say it? Sweetheart. At least two, you can’t remember — but ha! Two times! Haha! You don’t know what your obsession is with that term in particular, but there’s such a … a lack of Bruceness in the pet-name, a mushiness, that makes it like a symphony to hear from him.

 

Likewise, you don’t know what his obsession is with your German; you were a polygot, and the first time you uttered such terms to him, just to be flirty, it woken him from a sort of stupor that he had been subject to, and resulted in a delicious wall-pounding of likes the world has never known.

 

Stick to the German then. Yep. Got it.

 

You begin to rinse your hair of any soap that might be left, your spirits lowering as you know it must be soon to ten. You close your eyes, relaxed by the running water against your scalp. There are dual shower heads and they assault you with water, spraying you relentlessly. You rest your forehead against the wall.

 

And it doesn’t occur to you that the shower door had slid open until he had closed it, and his arm was around your waist.

 

“Hi.”

 

Bruce places a kiss on your shoulder, heightening your spirits.

 

You smile; gotta love that stealth. And you really do. You just … _really_ love that he can do things like that. You turn around and dissolve into his arms, wetting his back with the moist of your hands.

 

“Hard night?” You ask cheekily.

 

“In every way possible.”

 

You snort against him, rising to meet his eyes. “I thought we’d be a little above boner jokes, Mr. Wayne.”

 

“I agreed to no such thing.”

 

He does that little, almost imperceptible smirk that he is so very good at, and leans down to kiss you. You suddenly how much you miss it and wait for nothing, especially for him to sly with you; your tongue slips slowly but surely into his mouth. He presses you against the shower wall, hands against your cheeks. Your hands are underneath his arms, slipping against his back — you can feel something hard, scabby running against his back in horizontal fashion.

 

A wound. Its new, recently healed. Bruce freezes, ready to pull away at your discovery, ready for you to ask. You want to, but you don’t. Not now. You rise on your tiptoes and get him to continue the kissing, which he does adamantly, seeming happy that your curiosity is not as steadfast as your libido.

 

It’s not that, though; you know he doesn’t want to talk about it, so you don’t.

 

Plus. Naked kissing.

 

Your hands lower to the bump of his buttocks, sliding over them to grasp at the back of his powerful thighs; god, what you can’t see underneath all that Calvin Klein, that Alexander Mcqueen, is astonishing. Bruce is pure muscle under your hands, and he proves it by rising you, hands pressed hard into your ass as he lifts you against the wall.

 

You don’t care for his tricks, trying to make you faint. Oh, _Bruce_. Yeah, whatever, you don’t care, you still refuse to stop kissing him like this for the world; your tongue swipes over and around his own. He makes to bite you, but you pull your tongue and your lips away just in time, smiling, before melting back into it, into him.

 

You can feel his aching manhood against you, growing firmer all the time. Bruce is no moaner, but some form of cousin of such sound emits from him when you make a playful grab at his erection.

 

“Think that’s a good idea?” he says threateningly.

 

“Oh, sure,” You tease, nipping at his lips. “What’re gonna do? Chirp at me?”

 

Bruce grips you, hard, and settles you, hard, against the wall.

 

“Bats don’t chirp.”

 

“ _This_ one does.”

 

You make another grab at his erection, to which he lifts you away from the wall again, approaching the shower door, you in his arms, and throws it open.

 

“This wasn’t a good idea,” he says. “I’m going to show you why.”

 

You giggle happily.

 

“Can’t wait, _mein Schatz_.”

 

V

 

The sheets wet almost immediately as the two of you make contact with the bed.

 

He’s had over twelve hours and in all that time an overwhelming absence of you. He sees the woman he nearly couldn’t save and can’t help but crush you tighter to him, relish in the feel of your arms around him. He hears the woman’s in the back of his skull, echoing, mingling with his guilt that is soothed by the feel of your small hands grazing his chest.

 

Bruce falls over on his side because he wants to see you. The part of the mattress he lies against is hot from sunlight, and you get caught up in the rays as you straddle his hips.

 

“Are you —”

 

“No,” he says, knowing what you’re going to say. He doesn’t want it to be all about him; it won’t be, but he can’t give you foreplay right now, he has to be inside of you, pulsing and sweet in order to drive out the ugly night he’s had. He rises and entangles his hand in your hair. “No, (Y/n), do it.”

 

You settle against him as you have so many times. He’s already hard enough to slide right inside of you with no trouble at all, and your long, drawn-out moan at the feel of him is like no other symphony that has ever tugged at his heart, something surreal and not at all real.

 

You are crushed to him. He thrusts into you just as you fall against him, summoning another moan of surprise/pleasure from you and a suppressed grunt from him. Oh, _gods_ , he’s selfish. He’s selfish, he’s crazed and he doesn’t care.

 

“Bruce …” You gasp as he pounds into you, a hard grip on the back of your head. Your eyes roll back into your head, your nails digging into his broad shoulders. “God, Bruce, yes, _yes_.”

 

There’s something to be said about the tension that has resided in the two of you these last hours. You’re just as wet as you need to be for him and he’s just as hard as he needs to be for you. You fall against him at a particularly rough thrust inside of you, your teeth sinking into his neck.

 

He growls at the sudden, wonderful pain and falls over, pressing you into the mattress. He lifts your leg over his shoulder, crashing his lips into yours just as he spears into you, rocking slowly but no less aggressively into your mewling form.

 

Your nails bite into his back, and he relishes in the injuries, can nearly see the red blossom there, underneath his skin, at the almost angry act. His pace quickens, pulling himself in and out, careful to never fall from your delicious trap as he pounds against you.

 

“Bruce, god, _fuck_ , yes!”

 

Goddamn, he thinks, how did he ever live with you? Without your voice, your lips, your cunt? God, his pace is hardly a pace anymore as you tighten around him in every way possible, as the friction becomes all too much and he, against everything good and just, pulls out and ejaculates against the sheets.

 

His body is otherwise stuck to you. The sweat between his chest and yours makes it difficult to keep close but you do so anyway. Bruce’s eyes squeeze closed as his orgasm rocks against him, bringing everything around him, excluding you, to a startling, negligent haze.

 

His forehead grazes yours as his body relaxes. Your hands are on his arms, trembling, your mouth opens and closes, quietly desperate for air. Your eyelashes fluff against his skin.

 

“Tha —” You start, chest heaving. “That was amazing, Bruce, I …”

 

“But it wasn’t enough,” he cuts you off, getting to the meat of the issue. “Not by a long shot.”

 

“Not by a long shot, no,” You say, nodding slightly.

 

But by the looks of you, you are by no means disappointed. You make your way up to the pillows and settle there, waiting for him to join you.

 

He does, and his exhaustion begins to take hold. He hadn’t realized just how tired he really was; his muscles ached but now for a completely different reason. The night gone past becomes exactly that, the past: another night. Bruce tells himself that he shouldn’t ever forget one, shouldn’t condone the process of intentionally pealing each one from him, that they should live with him all day, every day.

 

But you curl around him, and he realizes that that would happen whether he sought it intentionally or not.

 

V

 

It’s still sunny when you wake, your mind tearing itself from miscellaneous dreams as reality sets in around you.

 

But … but …

 

You arch your back, your arm settling against the pillow Bruce should have been occupying, but was not. Something swipes at your clit, dancing against your outer labia, and you tighten your legs against whatever is keeping them apart.

 

You look down, and smile, your head falling against the pillow. “Bruce.”

 

He doesn’t answer; only a gentle hum that vibrates against your womanhood, and you shiver at the novel pleasure. He overwhelms your senses with his tongue, his hands smoothing against your inner thighs.

 

“If I knew you’d taste this good, I wouldn’t have waited so long …” Bruce rumbles.

 

And you feel Every. Single. Breath. Every. Single. Word against your tender, excited pussy and you want to scream but the urge is overcome by bucking into his wild mouth. Bruce’s tongue swirls against the sweet pink of your clit with such effortless expertise that you do scream — it’s wild and distorted and it only makes Bruce’s ministrations intensify.

 

That smirk again. Bruce moves away from your clit, replacing his tongue with his hand that slowly grazes over the excited nub. He gently circles his fingers against your labia, offering the slowest, most inefficient form of pleasure that he can.

 

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” You hiss, catching on.

 

You meet his eyes again and they are steel on you. “Tell me what you want me to do …”

 

“Bruce … fuck, I …”

 

He begins to gently squeeze your clit with his fingerpads.

 

You kick your leg out. “I need you to _fuck me again_.”

 

“Hm?” he says, rolling your clit with one finger. He stimulates it and you moan out of both frustration and pleasure because it’s good, oh, god, it’s good but it’s not enough and he knows that. “I didn’t catch that …”

 

You don’t answer, the final pinch of stubbornness you still retain refuses to.

 

“Hm?” He says, climbing back up to you. He places a leg between the two of yours to prevent you from stimulating yourself and you thrash but he holds you against the bed, pins you to the mattress. “Tell me what you want, (Y/n). Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

 

“I want you to fuck me,” You say in a heated rush. “I want you to fuck me against the headboard until I can’t see _shit_ anymore and I pass out.”

 

He moves, satisfied. You move for him; spreading your legs to admit him, panting like a mad animal as he positions himself against you and sinks his length into you for the second time that morning.

 

Your moan is long and drawn out, letting your head fall back as Bruce slams a hand against the mattress to suppress any sounds of his own. He squeezes his eyes, buries his head in the heat of your neck as he gives a hard thrust that bounces you against him.

 

“ ** _God_** , Bruce!”

 

"So good," he murmurs. "So good, (Y/n), oh, god ..."

 

He’s a force to be reckoned with as he pounds against you, his time spent with his lips sticking to the shell of your ear, whispering things that feel like filthy caresses of their own, the heat blowing against your lobe almost like a touch that helps bring you over the edge.

 

You plant kisses against his hair, his cheek, until he brings his face back to level with yours and leans his lips against your own. His thrusts are wild and your spirits are spinning out of control because this is the Bruce that no one on this green earth ever gets to see.

 

You’re completely lost in it all, your voice lost in Germanic sweet-nothings and with just a couple more thrusts and you get to hear Bruce come against you, shuddering, losing his voice in a growl. The two of you are stuck against one another as orgasm erodes any last remaining hints of sanity that might have survived.

 

Words die before they are allowed any conception; the two of you remain there for moments, maybe a half an hour before anything significant is said.

 

“Bruce …” You begin. So typical of you.

 

He rises to look at you, and he is level with you again.

 

You take a couple of breaths before you ask, “What the _hell_ did you see tonight?”

 

He doesn’t answer that — still too soon, god, it must have been bad — but he does kiss you, then kisses you again, then again, then again, and turns you over so he can lie on his side beside you.

 

You don’t press — it’s Bruce and if he doesn’t wish you to know you won’t — but you do caress his cheek, murmuring, “ _Mein Schatz_ ,” under your breath for the umpteenth time.

 

And it’s so easy to fall asleep beside him as the moments go on, and the both of you realize that the day is still very, very young.

 


End file.
